5 Years Later
by Banbi-V
Summary: 5 years after his "death", Sherlock Holmes returns to 221B Baker Street to tell John...and finds John has moved on. Now coping with the new reality for both of them, a new threat arises and it comes with a heavy price. Some slash-nothing graphic. Some torture.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: So..this is my first Sherlock fic. He has one line that might be a tad-bit OOC, but it's fit for the scene. Enjoy.

* * *

5 years.

And it looked exactly the same.

A lone figure stood outside 221B Baker Street, gazing up at the façade of the building. The flat was illuminated, which meant _he _was home.

Good. He had been slightly concerned about arriving early or too late. He walked up the familiar steps and opened the door.

Nothing had changed, which delighted him immensely. He treaded lightly, careful not to alert Mrs. Hudson. He was here for one purpose, one person only.

He approached the door he knew so well and was about to knock when a voice he thought he'd never hear again spoke.

"Dinner's almost ready and I'm positive I haven't burnt it!"

Oh lord, someone was letting _John _cook. Wait…

"We'll see about that Mr. Watson," a _female_ voice replied and he heard footsteps.

He held his breath, his heart pounding like a drum against his ribcage.

"I must say…that this sauce is divine!" the female exclaimed happily. "I think you've got the hang of it, John. I'll set the table, you get Sherlock."

_What?_

More footsteps and he saw John's shadow under the door. "Sherlock, wash up for dinner."

"Yes, daddy!"

He almost fainted on the spot, but no…he couldn't do that. He was trying to process it all.

John…married…with a son _named after him!_

"Daddy, is Mrs. Hudson going to join us?" Sherlock Jr asked.

John and his wife laughed. "She was here last night."

"Can't we invite her again?"

"Oh…alright, go and get her."

John opened the door to the empty staircase just as the front door slammed, making the windows rattle slightly. Below them, Mrs. Hudson came prancing out.

"Now what's with all the slamming?" she asked, looking up at them.

John shrugged. "We-well, I should say Sherlock wanted to invite you to dinner tonight. Again. And I didn't burn it this time," he pointed out.

She giggled. "Oh well…"

"Pleeeeeeaaaase, Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock begged, his dark blue eyes wide and pleading like a new born kitten.

"Oh, how can I say "no" to that little face?" she laughed. "I suppose I can endure your cooking for him."

"Hey!" John said, making both of them laugh.

As she stepped past them she winked, "You know I'm only kidding."

"Who was that, by the way? Who slammed the door?" he asked quietly as to not alert Mary or Sherlock. "Were you expecting anyone?"

Mrs. Hudson shook her head. "No, were you?"

John sighed. _Yes…I was hoping it was him._ "No…no one at all."

Outside, a lone figure slumped to the ground, the man's eyes burning with tears. 221B Baker Street looked the same, but had changed extraordinarily.

"I hate to say "I told you so" dear brother, but…well, I guess you saw everything," Mycroft said to the lump on the ground.

"No," he replied, his voice raspy. "I only heard."

Mycroft sighed, "I warned you."

"I'm well aware."

"Do you think you'll go back again?"

"How can I?" Sherlock looked up, his icy blue eyes rimmed red. "How can I go back when he-they've moved forward?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes and hoisted his brother up. "Come on now, you're being overly dramatic. You said so yourself you were returning, no matter what."

Sherlock frowned. He did say that, yes…but he hadn't expected _that _which was going on above them. John had talked about having a family and soon gave it up after several cases. He deemed it "too dangerous for a wife and child to be involved in." He had been delighted by that remark, Sherlock never enjoyed the idea of John settling down with some woman. He had been greedy and wanted John for himself.

He blinked and realized they were Mycroft's car. He reached for the door handle.

"No, go back!"

Mycroft slapped his brother's hand away. "Bloody hell, Sherlock! Don't get yourself killed for real! Take us back!" he yelled to their driver.

As they pulled up to the apartments, Mycroft held his arm. "Be gentle and be prepared for any sort of reaction."

Sherlock didn't reply as he dashed up the stairs into the building. He could hear the ringing laughter of John, Mrs. Hudson, this _wife _and John's child as he took a deep breath and knocked.

Moments later, the door opened and there was…a child.

He had dark blonde hair _like John_, dark blue eyes _like John_, an awkwardly, but cute shaped nose _like John_-oh god.

"Hi there, mister!" he smiled, perfect straight white teeth. "You lost?"

Sherlock stood there, dumbfounded. He heard a chair scratch along the wood floor. "Sherlock?" _This is it._

John opened the door wider and went rigid, as if he'd been petrified.

Sherlock gulped and nodded slightly. "Hello John," he whispered."

John stumbled back, cheeks puffing as if he was going to vomit before his eyes rolled up into his head, and he fainted.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Happy holidays to everyone! Here's a belated Xmas present.

* * *

"You made daddy faint!" the young boy yelled, staring down at John.

"John!" a young woman appeared, late-twenties, probably 28, with strawberry blonde hair in a half up-do, bright emerald green eyes, fair skin; she was 5'5, somewhere between 115-120lbs, and had fallen to her knees by John's unconscious form.

"Oh my god, John!" she took one glance at Sherlock and screamed. "You!"

Mrs. Hudson came running. "What on earth is-?"

She started to scream, but in a solid movement, Sherlock stepped into the room and put his hand over her mouth.

"Please don't scream, Mrs. Hudson, you'll alert the neighbors and I've already gained more attention than intended at this point."

As he removed his hand, tears streamed down her face. "H-how? We saw you-your grave-"

"Yes, you did," Sherlock replied quickly.

"But how-"

"Right now, that's not important. Give me a moment to speak to John," and with that, he scooped John's form up and walked to his room, closing the door behind them.

Mary and Mrs. Hudson exchanged exasperated glances at one other.

"Mommy, what's going on?" Sherlock tugged on his mother's skirt. "Is daddy okay?"

* * *

An hour later, John regained consciousness on his bed. The back of his head throbbed as he sat up groaning.

"Mary!"

"She and Mrs. Hudson took your son out for a coffee. They'll be back in an hour or two, I suspect," a voice John thought he'd never hear again told him.

He froze and right there, at the edge of his bed, sat Sherlock Holmes. He was extremely thin, he almost looked like death, given the circumstances, but he still had the same dark curly hair, those eyes that changed from blue to green to silver, and those damn high cheek bones. He had his back turned to John and glanced at him over his right shoulder.

"You look well," he said calmly.

The next second, his nose was bleeding profusely down his face.

"You bastard!" John screamed, scrambling to get out his bed. "You goddamn, bloody bastard!"

"That's a bit redundant," Sherlock muttered, pinching his nose.

John stormed into the living room, shouting profanities as Sherlock followed him.

"John, would you calm down-"

"CALM DOWN!? Are you _serious _right now?" He bellowed, a vein popping in his forehead. "How in the hell is this-I can't…you were _dead_! I saw you jump off the roof! Your blood…your eyes…" he started hyperventilating and fell into his chair.

He felt Sherlock bump his chair and peeked through his fingers to see a glass of water.

"Drink it, you're working yourself up."

"No," John swatted his hand away. "You don't get to boss me around. I want answers and I want them now!"

"Don't we all?" Sherlock replied, dusting the pillow before taking his place in his chair.

"What answers could you possibly want?" John snapped.

Sherlock looked at his hands, and then John's, noticing the golden band on his left ring finger. At least 4 years old, polished weekly. Which meant he had been married 2 years after he jumped and that boy was at least 3, possibly about to turn 4 in the next month or so.

"You're married I see. Good for you," he commented.

"Sherlock," John said flatly, glaring at him.

"He certainly takes after you, your…," Sherlock swallowed, making a face, "son."

John sat up, a slight smirk on his face. "Yeah, I have a son _and _wife. Does that bother you?"

"You named him after me."

John fell back in his chair. "It wasn't my choice, at first."

"At first?" Sherlock was interested.

"We're not having this conversation until I get my damn answers from you!" John shook his head. "So you better start talking _right now_ or so God help me, I will kick you down the stairs."

Sherlock sighed. "John, you wouldn't do that. I could fall and break my neck, and then you'd really-"

John got to his feet, his fist raised again. "Don't. You. Dare."

"What do you want to know? I practically gave you the answer that day," Sherlock explained. "I told you, but you didn't really listen, did you? You saw everything, but you didn't observe; how typical. You put all this mental pain on yourself, it was so unnecessary."

John gawked at him, his fist still raised. "What the hell are you talking about? You jumped off the roof, there was _blood_ everywhere, and your head was split open! I felt your wrist, there was _no pulse_!"

Sherlock closed his eyes and exhaled loudly. "John…you really are a fool."

A fist collided with his face and Sherlock found himself on all fours on the floor.

"Get out."

He got to his knees. "John-"

"Get. _Out._ Now."

Sherlock rose to his feet and faced the younger man. His eyes were red, tear streaks down his cheeks, his jaw was tense.

"I'll tell you everything, please just-"

"Are you deaf!? I said get out! And I'm not asking," John fumed.

A tense moment of silence filled the room and finally Sherlock took a step towards him. "As you wish. Give my regards and sincerest apologizes to Mrs. Hudson."

John didn't reply.

He made it to the door, and took one last look at John's back. "I am…glad to see you again, John. I mis-"

"I warned you."

Sherlock quickly rushed out the door and down the steps before John could take a step. He heard the door slam, the hinges creaking at the force, and John screamed out loud. It wasn't in physical pain…

* * *

John gripped the door and slammed it as hard as he could, yelling in anger before collapsing to his knees, back against the door. His forehead met his knees and he sobbed.

_How was this possible?_

Flashbacks of that day flew through his mind: Sherlock's body, limp and lifeless on the ground, the blood _God there was so much blood_, and his clouded over eyes staring into the abyss.

He remembered spending morning scrubbing his hands as hard as he could, trying to wash Sherlock's blood away. It wasn't there, but he could still see it, _feel _it and he scrubbed until his own skin started to rub off and his blood was pouring into the sink.

It took weeks for the new skin to grow, so he always wore gloves.

"God why?" he muttered to himself.


	3. Chapter 3

Ch 3.

Mrs. Hudson, Mary, and Sherlock Watson sat side by side on a bench in Hyde Park, watching the water fountains. Sherlock was enjoying an ice cream cone, eagerly chomping the chocolate ice cream and munching happily, kicking his feet.

"Oh, this must be so unusual for you," Mrs. Hudson sighed, taking Mary's hand. "I still can't believe it myself."

Mary shook her head. "I don't know what to make of it," she admitted. "I'm worried about John. When I met him, he was so distraught."

"I know dear," Mrs. Hudson gave her hand a gentle, comforting squeeze. "When he left Baker Street, I was so scared I'd never seen him alive again. I refused to rent the place because really, it's theirs, well…yours now, I suppose."

"Do you think he'll want to move back in?" Mary asked, glancing at her son.

Mrs. Hudson smiled, "Knowing Sherlock Holmes, he'll want to get back to the way it used to be."

"But it won't," Mary said, her tone slightly agitated. "Things are _very_ different now. He can't just come waltzing back into John's life and expect everything to go his way!"

"I'm sure he knows that, at least I hope so," Mrs. Hudson said. "Just take things slow, deary, and it'll work itself out."

* * *

Sherlock sat alone in Angelo's shop with a cup of coffee, black with two sugars, and stared out at the window. It was the same table he and John had sat at during the Study in Pink, but now it felt so odd and out of place. The setting was the same, but everything had changed.

Of course, he expected it to be, it had been 5 years, but Sherlock hoped-well…he didn't know what he was hoping.

John to welcome him with open arms? For them to rejoice their reunion and race out of Baker Street to chase criminals once more?

No…that was no longer a possibility, in any way, shape, or form. John had moved on, as expected, but not desired.

He had married…had a son, and left his life with Sherlock behind. Except he hadn't…that boy bore his name. _Why? _

He kept his face hidden, popping his collar and went to take a drink, only to find his hand shaking and sloshing coffee onto the table.

"_Can we not do this, this time?"_

_ "Do what?"_

_"You being all mysterious with your cheekbones and turning your coat collar up so you look cool."_

_ "I don't do that."_

_"Yeah, you do."_

Sherlock set his cup down and stormed out, wrapping his scarf around his neck.

_John, we need to talk. ~SH_

* * *

John was in the shower, with the water as hot as possible, holding his breath. The past 24 hours had not been the best. He finally let air into his lungs, gasping and wiped his face. He shut off the water, grabbed a towel through the curtains, and stepped out, wrapping it around his hips.

He wiped his hand across the mirror and stared at his reflection. Had those bags under his eyes always been there? Were they so dull and lifeless? When did he look so _old_?

"Jeeze," he muttered to himself, refusing to study the rest of his body as he dried himself off. Knowing he was alone, John headed for his bedroom and grabbed some jeans and his black and white striped sweater. His hair was short enough, he just let it air dry as he collapsed onto the bed. He grabbed his phone to check the time.

_1 unread text._

Sighing, he unlocked his phone.

_John, we need to talk. ~SH_

He fought the urge to throw his phone across the room. _NOW_ the bloody bastard wanted to talk! Fuming, he shut his phone off and flipped onto his stomach. His phone chimed.

_Please? ~SH_

Growling, John stared at his phone for a good minute, weighing his options. No matter if he answered or not, he was going down a path he could never turn back from. Taking a deep breath, he replied.

_Fine. ~JW_

_Thank you. ~SH_

* * *

5 minutes later, there was a knock on the door. John's heart stopped as he rose and unlocked the door to see Sherlock Holmes standing there.

A tense moment passed.

"May I come in?" he asked.

John stepped to the side and let the door hit the wall. He silently moved to his chair and sat down. "They'll be home in an hour, that's all I'm giving you," he said flatly.

Sherlock stepped in, shutting the door behind him. He remained there, observing their home and how much it had drastically changed. Toys scattered the floor, the table with John's laptop had been pushed against the wall by the windows, the TV moved beside the fireplace, which was void of everything Sherlock put there, including his colleague's skull. The wall paper had been torn down and replaced with a basic, boring medium blue.

"55 minutes," John snapped him out of his haze.

"Right, what is it you need?" he asked, not expecting John's flabbergasted expression.

"What-what I need? You're the one who said we needed to talk!"

"Yes, I imagined for your sake," Sherlock replied. "You did fall unconscious when we met, hardly any time for you to ask questions. Now is the time."

John balled his hands into fists. "I knew this was a bad idea-"

"Then why did you agree?"

"Would you just _shut up_ for a bloody moment!?" John snapped, his temper spiraling out of control. John pinched his nose, trying to calm himself down. Nerves wouldn't help.

"How did you survive the fall?" he finally asked. "I saw you jump off the hospital and hit the ground. No one could've lived through that."

Sherlock shifted his weight. "As I said before-"

"Don't get all mysterious and talk to me in riddles!" John snapped, glaring at him. "Plain English, if you please?"

Sherlock took a breath. "I injected myself with a neuroparalyzer after you left for Mrs. Hudson-"

"Which was a lie," John interjected.

"Yes, it was to get you away. Do you remember the ball I had?"

John didn't blink. "Yes? Wait…oh my god, you didn't? You squeezed it on your elbow?"

Sherlock nodded. "Very good, John."

John put a hand over his eyes. "Oh Jesus…"

"Very simple, really, isn't it?" Sherlock couldn't help but smile.

"It's idiotic!" _Brilliant._ "But what about hitting the ground? There's no way your body didn't break."

"That was unintended," he admitted. "When there was construction, I convinced the workers to let me put some old hospital mattresses in the sidewalk. They didn't do very well concealing it, so I couldn't jump as far as I wanted. Thankfully, part of my neck hit the edge of the mattress."

Tears were forming in John's eyes as Sherlock continued.

"I had several nurses, including Molly-"

"Molly knew!?" John's tears ceased. "Christ, who else knew!?"

"One moment at a time," Sherlock insisted. "Several nurses carried me away, they knew it had gone wrong and I needed immediate surgery. Broken bones, punctured arteries, and the usual. Even I'm surprised there was no severe brain damage, just a lovely scar." He rubbed his hand behind his ear.

"No, you're already brain damaged because you're absolutely mental for trying something so stupid!" John got to his feet. "I've had enough of this."

Sherlock moved, pressing his back to the door. "No, now will you answer my question?"

"Which is?" John stood in front of you.

"Why did you name your son after me? And don't bother telling me it was Mary's idea, she would never do such a thing."

John crossed his arms. "You'd be surprised. She did suggest it, but it wasn't until he was born that we decided together to name him, each for our own reasons."

"Which was?" Sherlock asked.

"You know why," John sighed loudly.

"Actually, I don't. I can surmise-"

"Take your best shot."

"I'd rather hear it from you. I know Mary's reason, I want to hear yours."

John turned and walked back to his chair. He took a deep breath, covering his eyes. "Because…everything I could never say…I could finally say. He'd never know, my boy, so it wouldn't hurt anyone."

"Things you could never say to me, why?" Sherlock moved to stand in front of him.

"It doesn't matter now, we're past that point," John looked away. Sherlock hunkered down and took his wrist.

"What point?"

John focused his gaze on the fireplace, his tears betraying him. "I don't…I can't anymore."

"Can't what?"

John pulled his hand free. "Love you," he admitted.

Sherlock sat there, stunned as John pushed his way out, grabbing his jacket. He headed down the stairs with Sherlock rushing after him. He slipped between the wall and John, pinning himself to the front door.

"Move."

"No."

"Please? I can't do this. Not now," John whispered.

"I'm not moving."

"Why?" Their eyes finally met. "So you can humiliate me even more?"

"I'm not-how am I humiliating you?" Sherlock reached out to put his hand on John's shoulder, but he smacked it away.

"I thought I buried these feelings when I married Mary, but no…I'm a father, a husband whose admitting he's in love with another man who just came back from the dead!"

"Most homosexual men marry to avoid their feelings, it's nothing out of the ordinary," he pointed out blatantly.

"This is far from ordinary! My entire life is unraveling at the seams and all because you had to come back!" John yelled.

His words cut deep, stunning Sherlock. "I…wasn't aware I'd made such an impression."

"You always did. From the moment we met, you were unforgettable. There hasn't been a day when I haven't thought of you."

Sherlock blinked. "I, uh..I'm flattered and surprised."

"Why do you say that?" John couldn't look away from those eyes. He didn't expect to see Sherlock's eyes turning red at the edges.

"I didn't think anyone would miss me, especially you, after the way I behaved."

John smiled briefly. "Well…you were being an inconsiderate prick at the time."

"I had everyone against me," Sherlock whispered. "Even you…I was so alone."

"No, you weren't. You were never alone."

Sherlock shook his head, his eyes telling more than his voice could as John closed the space between them.

"I am truly sorry, John, truly sorry for all the pain I've caused. Never in my life would I want to hurt you, I always tried to protect you from harm, but in the end it was me who-"

"Shut up. Just…shut your mouth," John cupped his face, thumbs behind his ears. He lightly traced the scar Sherlock mentioned. "I don't know why you jumped-"

"To save your life. If I hadn't jumped, Moriarty would've had you gunned down."

"What about now?"

"Moriarty is dead and his goons are long gone. I made sure before I came back. I couldn't risk putting you in danger's path again."

John rested his head against Sherlock's chest. "Jesus…did you kill them?"

"It was necessary."

John met his gaze again. "You're unbelievable."

"Am I?" he sounded surprised.

"Yes, in every sense of the word. You are completely deranged!"

"That's an adjective I've never been called-"

"But goddammit if it's not another reason I love you."

Sherlock blinked. "You…love me?"

"Yes," John didn't care anymore. He just let the words come out, words he had held back for years. "I love you…so much it has killed me."

Sherlock grabbed a fistful of John's hair and closed the small space between them, smashing their lips together. He responded immediately, hands sliding from Sherlock's face to his thin waist. He pinned Sherlock to the wall, nuzzling his lower lip until he felt the skin break slightly. Sherlock moaned and flipped their positions fluidly. He grabbed John's bad leg and wrapped it around his hip, grinding, eliciting the sweetest moan from John.

They moaned into each other's mouths, relishing in each other's taste, so much, they didn't hear the front door creak open.

"John!?"

"Daddy?"

* * *

A/N: Thoughts, please?


	4. Chapter 4

Ch 4.

Sherlock Holmes sat on the front steps of 221 Baker Street, a cigarette in his hand. He had given up the fight _long ago_ while living on the streets of London. He took a deep breath, watching the tobacco sizzle and burn a bright amber color before inhaling the toxic fumes into his lungs, relishing in the burn he felt and let it out, his mind going numb; his vision briefly blurred.

Behind him, the door creaked open and Sherlock Watson stepped out. He instantly coughed, from the cold air or the second hand smoke, the older man wasn't sure. He sighed and squashed his cigarette into the ground. John would throttle him if he knew Sherlock had been smoking around his son.

"Mommy and daddy are talking at each really loudly," he whined quietly, sitting on the porch, wrapping his tiny arms around himself.

"They're fighting," Sherlock replied, his voice deep and hoarse.

The little one looked like he was about to cry. "They never fight."

"That's not a good sign," he said with a slight grin. He would never vocally admit it, but John and Mary fighting…

"Why?" the young boy asked, putting his gloves over his mouth and breathing, trying to warm his face up.

"Couples who don't fight are masking unresolved issues."

"What does that mean?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and bit his lip. John should've raised his son better than this. When Sherlock was this boy's age, he was translating Shakespeare from its original context into modern English as a hobby. He took a breath and changed his vocabulary.

"Something is wrong and they haven't fixed it."

"Can I help?" Little Sherlock asked, perking up, as if they were going to fix a broken train set or other.

"You might be the problem," Sherlock muttered under his breath, soft enough so the boy couldn't hear him. The door behind them opened and both boys turned to see John and Mary.

Sherlock instantly took the scene in. Both had flushed faces from yelling, pupils dilated, mused hair from running their fingers through their own countless times, breathing was heavy, Mary's expression suggested irritation; John was expressionless, his military face on.

"We decided you can stay," John finally spoke. Sherlock jumped to his feet.

"Excellent!"

"In the upstairs bedroom," Mary added, a hint of smugness in her tone.

"Not excellent," Sherlock frowned. "What's wrong with my room?"

Mary crossed her arms over her chest. "It's _our_ room."

"And John's room-"

"Is our sons," John ended the sentence for him.

Sherlock nodded. "I see…well, that's fine. Now where's my equipment? I want to start an experiment!"

John and Mary responded simultaneously.

"We got rid of it." "No, no, no, there will be _none_ of your ghastly experiments going on!"

"You..got rid of it, why? It took me _ages_ and more money than I'd care to mention to obtain it all!" Now the older man sounded like a whining school boy.

"That's not our problem," Mary snapped, her tone getting bitter. If it wasn't for his upbringing and the fact John and the boy were present, Sherlock might have slapped her.

"We donated what we could to local schools and the rest, which was very unsanitary, we dumped," John explained. "Had to have the kitchen practically quarantined afterwards," he added.

Sherlock stood stunned in his spot. "I…see," he muttered before clapping his hands under his chin. "It shouldn't be too difficult to obtain replacements. I know where to-"

"Uh, no!" John protested, his fatherly tone seemed to be his regular tone. "I said no experiments! If you wanna do that _stuff,_ go to the university. You're not doing any of that here!"

"But John-" "NO!" he yelled, his voice echoing down the street. "Absolutely not!" his face was turning red and Sherlock had a feeling he wasn't the first Sherlock to be in this line of fire.

"I don't know how many times I have to tell you, you are _not_ conducting any experiment of _any_ kind here! Lord knows how many times you set that place on fire, or let poisonous fumes float around and kill us, but I will _not_ have my son and wife subjected to that! If I find so much as a dissected frog here, you're out! Are we clear?"

"A dissected frog would be educational to your son, don't you think?" Sherlock smirked, driving John up the wall.

"Can it, Sherlock! I'm dead serious. Knowing you, you'd pick a deadly frog whose skin can kill you if you touch it," John fired back and he knew he won the fight. "Nothing inhumane is allowed, do I make myself clear?"

The older man pursed his lips and sighed. "Crystal, sir."

"Thank you," and with that, John left them, climbing back up the stairs.

Mary rolled her eyes and gave her husband a hard look. "As long as it's not poisonous, I don't mind if you dissect a frog," she gave him a brief smile and Sherlock knew that was the best he would ever get from Mary.

"Thank you."

"C'mon Sherlock, wanna help mommy make dinner?" she asked her son, putting her arm around him.

"Yeah, yeah!" he jumped for joy and scampered up the stairs. Sherlock had to admit, the sight was rather adorable…just a little.

As he headed inside, he glanced at the street once more. Nothing looked out of the ordinary, but something felt…wrong. Sherlock stepped inside the doorway and locked it properly.

* * *

Further down the street, two men sat in their car, witnessing the scene on Baker Street. The driver set down his binoculars.

"They're all there," he grinned. "Time to put the plan in action."

"Execute Sherlock," his accomplice grinned, polishing his sniper rifle.

"Precisely."

"Which one?"

The driver smiled wider. "Both."

* * *

A/N: So..Mary came out a little bit bitchier than I planned. I'll try to soften her up, unless everyone likes bitchy Mary. :)


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: I'd like to dedicate this chapter to starrysummernights, who is a fabulous and amazing writer on here. If you haven't read her works, please do! And I hope you enjoy this chapter, it's a little more happy than previous chapters.

* * *

Ch 5.

"Whatcha doing?"

Sherlock Holmes glanced up from his new compound microscope to see a pair of widened, curious blue eyes peeking over the table top.

"An experiment," he replied.

"You do a lot of those," the boy commented.

"It's my job."

"Was pushing daddy against the wall an experiment?"

Holmes choked, nearly dropping his vial. "I've seen him do that to mommy-"

"Sherlock!" Mary called from the other room, her cheeks burning pink. "Mr. Holmes is very busy. Why don't you let him work and finish your homework for school tomorrow?"

The boy pouted, hopping down from the chair. "But his stuff looks more fun! I don't like chemistry!"

Holmes snorted. "What I'm doing is chemistry."

No sooner had the words left his mouth did Sherlock Holmes regret them.

"_Reeeaallly_?"

Now the boy was by his side, his head level with Sherlock's elbows. He rose to the tips of his toes, his head leaning on Sherlock's shoulder. "Can I help?"

"Honey," Mary protested. "Finish your schoolwork, then you can help Mr. Holmes if he needs assistance."

Sherlock Watson frowned and crossed his arms over his chest, pouting. "But I don't wanna! I don't get why learning the periodic table matters!"

Sherlock Holmes froze, his hand twitching. "Come with me," he said bluntly, taking the boy's hand and leading him to his bedroom where his poster was set up. "This is why the periodic table of elements is important!"

* * *

1 hour later, two Sherlocks emerged, one smiling proudly; the other holding his head.

"Mommy, I have a headache," little Sherlock moaned, crawling into his mother's lap. She chuckled, caressing his soft hair.

"Oh, did Mr. Holmes fill your head with too much knowledge?"

"Only what you, John, and the school system failed to teach him," Sherlock said dryly, sitting back down at his lab.

Mary glared at him, "Not all of us are genius sociopaths, Mr Holmes." She kissed her son's forehead. "C'mon darling, I'll make you a cuppa."

As she handed cups to both Sherlock's, John opened the door and walked in, carrying his briefcase. "Evening," he smiled, kissing Mary square on the lips. "And how's my little boy?"

"My head hurts," he moaned, burying his face in his father's stomach.

John frowned and scooped him up. "What's the matter?" he asked sympathetically, putting his hand on Sherlock's forehead.

"Mr. Sherlock showed me his poster with the elements."

John glanced over at Sherlock with mock surprise. "He did!? And what did you learn?"

"Too much," the boy whined, burying his face in father's good shoulder.

Holmes shook his head. "I only taught him the basics: each element's atomic number, weight, standard state, the group it belongs to in the table, color, classification, melting point, boiling point-"

"Bloody hell!" John yelled, setting his son down. "That's not the basics, Sherlock! That's high school level education!"

Sherlock shrugged. "I knew all of it at his age. John, you should consider getting him a private tutor, or I can home school him-"

"Uh no," John sat across from him. "He's doing just fine in public school. We don't need your help."

Sherlock Holmes pulled out Watson's report card from his jacket. "That's not what this report says. He has a D in science, arithmatic, and history-"

John snatched the paper from him. "Where the hell did you get that? That's not your business!"

Sherlock shrugged. "I make it my business when a young boy, especially yours, who has the potential to be great, is failing the basic subjects in school!"

Mary placed a hand on John's shoulder. "Darling...it wouldn't hurt to have Sherlock tutor him, as long as he promises to take things slow," she gave the man a stern look.

John sighed, "Alright, until the end of the term."

* * *

Every evening at 7pm, both Sherlock's would disappear into Holmes' room for a 2 hour tutor session. At first, Holmes would emerge, frustrated at how _sloooow_ they were moving, but soon the sessions became 3 hours, and as finals approached, they became 4 or even 5 hours.

One summer afternoon, Sherlock Watson came bolting up the stairs, a report card in his hand a smile on his face.

"Mommy, daddy, look!" he yelled for joy, waving the paper.

"Let me see," John took it, eyes scanning the page. "I don't believe it..."

Mary and Sherlock Holmes looked up. "What is it?" Mary took the paper and gasped. "Sherlock!"

"What?" both of them said simultaneously. Mary smiled at her son. "Oh darling, we're so proud of you. Good job!"

Sherlock Holmes leaned over saw the report: A's in science, math, and history, English, and a B+ in physical education.

He sat back, beaming proudly. "You're welcome," he said to John and Mary before taking his tea into his room.

Awhile later, John knocked on his door. "Hey," he said softly, stepping in. He found Sherlock sitting on his bed, typing away madly on his laptop. "Thanks for...for helping my boy. He hasn't exactly...been the best in school. We've had tutors before, but they quit after some time. Didn't think he'd...learn properly."

"Was he premature?" Sherlock asked, shutting his laptop. "Learning deficiencies are common-"

John nodded. "Yeah...he was a few weeks early, born with the cord around his neck. We thought he was a stillborn at first, but then the doctors gave him a good smack on the bum and he started crying," John smiled, a tear in his eye. "It was one of the most terrifying moments in my life, but we're so happy to have him. It's true, he doesn't learn as quickly as other kids, sometimes he forgets what he's learned, but...we do the best we can."

Sherlock nodded, putting his hands together under his chin. "I see...well, he seems to have made a come back, so there's no need to worry now."

John smiled. "But we couldn't have done it without you, so...thanks," he put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "It means a lot to Mary and I, it really does."

"Anytime," Sherlock replied, getting to his feet and walking towards the window. "I will continue tutoring him, if you want."

John nodded. "I'd like that, yeah. He seems to be warming up to you, you might even make a decent fath-"

"Don't be absurd John," Sherlock cut him off. "Children are not my area, nor will they ever be. I only fixed your son so he wouldn't be a failure in life."

A sharp breath escaped John and he put his hand over his face. "Well...alright then," he got to his feet and left. Sherlock turned around, glacning out the window, and saw a car with its lights off drive away, as if they were watching.

Sherlock pulled out his phone and messaged his brother:

_We need to discuss security measures at Baker Street._


End file.
